The Memory Trap Read Online Free
Author: Anthony Price
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Espionage
he found he could no longer leave it at that after all. ‘What has Peter Richardson got to do with Kulik? He retired years ago. And he wasn’t with us long, anyway.’
‘Kulik gave us Richardson’s name before he died. His name and your name again, David.’ Butler continued to stare at him. ‘Is there anything you know about Richardson that we ought to know—‘ He glanced down at the envelope ‘—that may not be on record?’
So that was why he was here: to ask the old 64,000 dollar question!
‘Without looking at the record … ‘ Then he shrugged. Obviously there wasn’t anything of significance in it, otherwise he wouldn’t have been given it. And the only thing he did know about Peter Richardson which wouldn’t be in there had nothing to do with security matters, but was well covered by his own word of honour. ‘But … I can’t think of anything. Only, I haven’t set eyes on him for years. Not since he up and quit on us. And that would be … ‘74, was it? Years ago, anyway. And I didn’t know him all that well, even then.’ He lifted the envelope. ‘Isn’t that clear from the record?’
‘He once pulled you out of trouble, in Italy.’
‘He did—yes.’ No use denying what was on record. ‘And he was there up north, on that job of yours at Castleshields. But I still hardly knew him—he was Fred Clinton’s man, not mine.’ It was Kulik’s word against his, it seemed. ‘Fred’s man—Fred’s mistake, wasn’t he?’ That would also be in the damn record, even if Sir Frederick Clinton himself was honourably dead-and-buried, so he didn’t need to labour the point. But Kulik’s word was final, of course: there was no arguing with a dead man. ‘So you want me to talk to Peter Richardson. So I’ll talk to him.’ All the same he was still more than puzzled. ‘You didn’t sweat all the way from the Embankment just to ask me if I knew more than was in this rubbish—‘ he held up the envelope again ‘—did you?’
‘I want you to bring him in, David. We can’t force him to come. But I think he may be safer under wraps for the time being. And he may listen to you, of all people.’
There was a sharp knock on the door. And, on cue, the Neapolitan boarding light had become desperate.
‘ Wait! ’ Butler gave the man outside his old Army voice. ‘When I said that it could have been you in Berlin I meant it. That’s why I’m giving you Mitchell to watch your back. And your front, too.’ The parade-ground volume had gone, but it was still Colonel Butler speaking, not Sir Jack. ‘Until I’m satisfied that that second bullet didn’t have your name on it I can’t be sure that there isn’t a third bullet still unfired, with Richardson’s name on it. So you must exercise due caution in Naples, David. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Jack.’ Or, as everyone was so fond saying, See Naples, and die ! But, in the meantime, he had a plane to catch.
2
THEY WERE waiting for him at Naples too, of course: they took him off the plane ahead of everyone else. Only this time, even though the stewardess treated him like a VIP, the rest of them were in two minds about him—even those who heard him addressed as Professore —
‘Professore Audley? This way, if you please, Professore.’
Everyone had looked at him when he’d arrived last and late. Now, regardless of the Italian custom of upping even the most cobwebby doctorate to professorial status, the suspicious expressions on the faces of those passengers nearest to him suggested that they were mentally bracketing him with Professore Moriarty, as another master-criminal caught at last.
But after that it was simpler, with no Heathrow labyrinth to negotiate, only a car waiting for him, with Paul Mitchell standing beside it.
Or, rather, three cars—
Or, rather … half the Italian army?
‘Hi there, David.’ In dark glasses and open-necked shirt Mitchell looked like any late-season English tourist, in striking contrast to Audley’s
‘Kulik gave us Richardson’s name before he died. His name and your name again, David.’ Butler continued to stare at him. ‘Is there anything you know about Richardson that we ought to know—‘ He glanced down at the envelope ‘—that may not be on record?’
So that was why he was here: to ask the old 64,000 dollar question!
‘Without looking at the record … ‘ Then he shrugged. Obviously there wasn’t anything of significance in it, otherwise he wouldn’t have been given it. And the only thing he did know about Peter Richardson which wouldn’t be in there had nothing to do with security matters, but was well covered by his own word of honour. ‘But … I can’t think of anything. Only, I haven’t set eyes on him for years. Not since he up and quit on us. And that would be … ‘74, was it? Years ago, anyway. And I didn’t know him all that well, even then.’ He lifted the envelope. ‘Isn’t that clear from the record?’
‘He once pulled you out of trouble, in Italy.’
‘He did—yes.’ No use denying what was on record. ‘And he was there up north, on that job of yours at Castleshields. But I still hardly knew him—he was Fred Clinton’s man, not mine.’ It was Kulik’s word against his, it seemed. ‘Fred’s man—Fred’s mistake, wasn’t he?’ That would also be in the damn record, even if Sir Frederick Clinton himself was honourably dead-and-buried, so he didn’t need to labour the point. But Kulik’s word was final, of course: there was no arguing with a dead man. ‘So you want me to talk to Peter Richardson. So I’ll talk to him.’ All the same he was still more than puzzled. ‘You didn’t sweat all the way from the Embankment just to ask me if I knew more than was in this rubbish—‘ he held up the envelope again ‘—did you?’
‘I want you to bring him in, David. We can’t force him to come. But I think he may be safer under wraps for the time being. And he may listen to you, of all people.’
There was a sharp knock on the door. And, on cue, the Neapolitan boarding light had become desperate.
‘ Wait! ’ Butler gave the man outside his old Army voice. ‘When I said that it could have been you in Berlin I meant it. That’s why I’m giving you Mitchell to watch your back. And your front, too.’ The parade-ground volume had gone, but it was still Colonel Butler speaking, not Sir Jack. ‘Until I’m satisfied that that second bullet didn’t have your name on it I can’t be sure that there isn’t a third bullet still unfired, with Richardson’s name on it. So you must exercise due caution in Naples, David. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Jack.’ Or, as everyone was so fond saying, See Naples, and die ! But, in the meantime, he had a plane to catch.
2
THEY WERE waiting for him at Naples too, of course: they took him off the plane ahead of everyone else. Only this time, even though the stewardess treated him like a VIP, the rest of them were in two minds about him—even those who heard him addressed as Professore —
‘Professore Audley? This way, if you please, Professore.’
Everyone had looked at him when he’d arrived last and late. Now, regardless of the Italian custom of upping even the most cobwebby doctorate to professorial status, the suspicious expressions on the faces of those passengers nearest to him suggested that they were mentally bracketing him with Professore Moriarty, as another master-criminal caught at last.
But after that it was simpler, with no Heathrow labyrinth to negotiate, only a car waiting for him, with Paul Mitchell standing beside it.
Or, rather, three cars—
Or, rather … half the Italian army?
‘Hi there, David.’ In dark glasses and open-necked shirt Mitchell looked like any late-season English tourist, in striking contrast to Audley’s
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